


Try Not to Crack (Under the Stress)

by allonsy_gabriel, Sanna_Black_Slytherin



Series: History Obliterates (the Hamilton Reincarnation AU No One Wanted) [20]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Angst, Homophobia, Hurricane Alexander, Memory Loss, Other, Poor James, Racism, Sexism, Thomas Jefferson Being an Asshole
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-07
Updated: 2017-08-07
Packaged: 2018-12-12 11:45:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11736396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allonsy_gabriel/pseuds/allonsy_gabriel, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sanna_Black_Slytherin/pseuds/Sanna_Black_Slytherin
Summary: The man hovering in front of him was talking. What was he saying? Thomas couldn't hear him. Why couldn't he hear him? What was happening to him the last thing he remembered was going to sleep in his bed in Monticello and then--Nothing. There was nothing.





	Try Not to Crack (Under the Stress)

**Author's Note:**

> This took Way Longer than it should've because I was writing literally Everything Else.
> 
> Props to Ring for writing the first bit because I was Too Lazy and binging Buffy the Vampire Slayer. 
> 
> WARNING!!!!!!! Thomas Jefferson is a Grade A Asshole and uses Lots of offensive, racist, and sexist language. Just. Heads up.

Thomas opened his eyes, and immediately wished he hadn't.

 

There was a man leaning over him, his looks entirely foreign to Thomas. Judging by his attire, he was a physician of sorts, though Thomas was at a loss as to the man's identity. He had no recollection of how he had found himself here. The last thing he remembered was--

 

Oh.  _ Oh _ .

 

Strange memories flashed through his mind. An Oriental boy -- James, was it? -- with a green cast and three mulatto girls playing, talking with him. No, Thomas corrected himself, they had been playing with Parker. Which was-- who?  _ He  _ could not be this Parker. He was Thomas Jefferson.

 

Another memory lingered on his mind, this one of a reflection in a mirror. A sense of dread settled over Thomas as a sneaking suspicion occurred to him. Ignoring the invasive man, though it took almost all of his energy not to curl up into a ball and shut out all external senses, he slowly raised his hand to eye level.

 

It wasn't the pale cream he was used to seeing. If anything, it resembled the colour of _ Sally's _ skin. A  _ slave’s _ skin.

 

There was a sharp intake of breath, and it took Thomas several seconds to realize that the sound came from him.

 

The man hovering in front of him was talking. What was he saying? Thomas couldn't hear him. Why couldn't he hear him? What was happening to him the last thing he remembered was going to sleep in his bed in Monticello and then--

 

Nothing. There was nothing.

 

“--rker? Parker?” one of the mulatto girls was saying. She couldn't be older than seven, the back of his mind estimated, even as most of him was too preoccupied with his predicament to care.

 

Thomas did not answer. He wasn't this Parker person, whoever he was. He was Thomas Jefferson, and this girl was already bordering on impertinent by addressing anyone in such a fashion without leave. Didn't she realize he was her better, in every way that mattered?

 

_ Your eyes say otherwise _ , the same corner of his mind reminded him. He disregarded it with patented ease. After all, if he could tune out Hamilton's insolent rants during Washington's cabinet meetings, he could be the master of his own damn mind.

 

“Parker?” the little mulatto girl asked again, “Bubba? Are-are you alright?” 

 

“I do not care for the familiar manner in which you address me,” Thomas snapped, no longer able to to contain himself.

 

There was a second intake of breath. This one came from the Oriental boy, who was staring at Thomas as though the man had declared full support for one of Hamilton’s absurd schemes.

 

“Thomas?” the boy said tentatively, as though fearing an affirmative answer.

 

“At least this one has the right name,” Thomas said with an eye roll. “Boy, I am not familiar with you. Who are you to address me in such a fashion?”

 

“Jemmy? Wha-what’s wrong with Parker?” another little girl asked. She looked even younger than the first, her coily black hair pulled into two puffs on the top of her head.

 

The boy--Jemmy, apparently--smiled at her. “He's fine, Al. He's just tired,” he said, “How about you and Charlie and Annabelle go outside for a little bit, alright? I bet if you go to Alex’s room he'll have some snacks that you can bring back

 

Thomas was too tired to argue that the boy had no right to make any kind of call when it concerned Thomas’ visitors -- because that was obviously who they were. He felt a flash of gratefulness.

 

The two littlest girls seemed content to accept the boy’s words at face value, but the eldest stared at Thomas for an uncomfortably long time before shaking her head. “No way. He’s my Bubba. I'm staying,” she said stubbornly, resulting in a glare from Thomas.

 

“I believe you are mistaken, little girl,” Thomas said, not even attempting to keep the sneer off his face. Who was this child who thought she could talk to him this way? For a second, he was strongly reminded of Hamilton. Perhaps she was a distant relation of his? Yet another reason for her presence not to be welcome at his bedside.

 

The little girl took a step back. “You-you're not Parker,” she said quietly.

 

Thomas snorted. “You truly are a clever one,” he drawled mockingly. The girl flinched. “Run along with your friends.”

 

“Go, Charlie,” the boy agreed, “And, uh, tell Alex and whoever's with him that Thomas is back. He'll know what I mean.”

 

The girl took another step back, her eyes widening. “You're--” she started, but did not finish. She's turned abruptly and ran out of the room. The door shut behind her. 

 

How did it  _ do _ that? Thomas, having some access to the _ other _ memories, knew that it was an everyday concept as far as the mulatto boy was concerned, but it took him no closer to discovering the mechanisms behind it. He cursed the boy -- what kind of a person accepted things at face value, instead of trying to find out their true nature? Was this time truly so ignorant?

 

It raised another question:  _ when _ was he? Thomas went to sleep on July 4th, 1826. How long has it been since? What has he missed?

 

“Jefferson,” the boy said, sitting down at the end of Thomas’ bed. Thomas suppressed the urge to move away. He did not know whether it was because the boy was an immigrant or because he was in no way prepared to talk to people, let alone strangers. “There are a few things you need to know.”

 

“Who are you?” Thomas finally asked, figuring that it was futile to remind the boy of his manners -- or the lack thereof.

 

The boy sighed. “You might find it impossible to believe, but I am James Madison. Your friend.”

 

Thomas’ eyes narrowed. “You are correct, sirrah,” he snapped. “I do indeed find it rather impossible up believe. I know Mr Madison, and he does not look like--”  _ one of my slaves _ “--this.”

 

“Like one of your slaves, you mean?” the boy guessed, almost amused. Thomas frowned. Was it still permissible to use corporal punishment on inferiors for insolence? Thomas couldn't imagine otherwise.

 

Something stayed his hand. He could not put his finger on what it was, exactly. It was nothing tangible, a fleeting shadow which evaded him when he tried to grab it. He convinced himself that it was because this boy had information Thomas needed, and had so far been less rude than the alternatives.

 

The boy interpreted Thomas’ silence as tacit concurrence. His lips formed a thin line. “How can I convince you of the veracity of my words?” he asked, words more formal than anything he had uttered before. Mayhaps he  _ could _ learn after all.

 

“You cannot,” Thomas said simply. “It is futile to try.”

 

The boy smiled bitterly. “Resistance is futile,” he mouthed to himself, seeming to find amusement in his own words.

 

Thomas closed his eyes. It seemed that he had spoken prematurely. The boy was mumbling  _ complete nonsense _ . A case for a physician of the mind, Thomas thought privately. Delusional about his own identity. This was the man on whom Thomas relied to receive essential information. The mere idea was  _ laughable _ . “If you're going to spout gibberish, please do it at a volume that is easier to hear. If I must listen to you, I don't want to have to strain myself to do so,” Thomas snapped.

 

The boy rolled his eyes. He rolled his eyes! At Thomas! The nerve -- the  _ gall _ . “In hindsight,” the boy said, “I can see why Alex despised you so much. You're not particularly likeable, are you, Mr. Jefferson?”

 

“Alex?” Thomas echoed. It could not be-- “Supposing that I decide to believe your frankly preposterous claim of you being James Madison, have things truly changed so much that you are now on friendly terms with  _ Hamilton _ ?” he could not keep the disgust from his voice.

 

“They've changed more than you think, Thomas,” the boy replied with a wistful smile, and Thomas blanched at the feeling of his stomach rolling as though riding out waves.

 

“Is that a threat?” Thomas retorted, turning defensive. Here was yet another proof of why the boy’s claim could not possibly be anything but a lie: the James Madison that Thomas knew would never attack Thomas, verbally or otherwise.

 

“What? No!” the boy said, seemingly horrified at the thought-- _ as he should be. _ “I just--Jesus Christ, this is complicated.”

 

“On this, if nothing else, I'm inclined to believe you,” Thomas replied dryly.

 

“I'm not  _ threatening _ you,” the James pretender said in exasperation. “I'm just-- trying to warn you, I guess. I can't imagine what you must be going through.”

 

“That is correct, and I would greatly appreciate it if you did not pretend as if you did.”

 

The boy groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Jeez, you are a  _ dick _ ,” he said.

 

Thomas flushed deeply, though, he mused, it was hardly visible through the darker skin. “I fail to see what any of that has to do with the matter at hand,” he stuttered. “I trust that I do not need to remind you that sexual acts of any kind between two people of the same sex are punishable by death.”

 

“What are you--  _ Oh _ ,” the boy's’ lips curled up in something resembling a smile. “That's not what I meant, although you're in for quite a surprise in that department.”

 

Thomas narrowed his eyes and pulled back. “I-I don’t know what you think you’re implying, but let me be perfectly clear when I say that I will not tolerate this behaviour from someone like  _ you _ any longer,” he said sharply.

 

The boy scoffed. “We are the same age, Thomas.”

 

“Physically, it may be so,” Thomas conceded, “but I have quite a few years on you in terms of mental age.”

 

“You lived to be 83. I lived until I was 85. And while you do have a few months on me this time around, it’s certainly not enough to make up for those two years.”

 

“I refuse to listen to this any longer,” Thomas said resolutely. “I will be leaving. Do not feel inclined to follow me.”

 

“You will not,” the boy said with a certain assuredness.

 

“And who are you to stop me? It looks like a light breeze could knock you over,” Thomas taunted.

 

The boy shrugged, his face betraying nothing. “Go ahead. Try.”

 

Thomas huffed and moved to swing his leg over the edge of the bed.

 

His legs didn't budge. A wave of terror swept through Thomas along with a wave of pain that left him gasping. 

 

The boy didn't meet his eyes. “I told you,” he said simply. “You're not going anywhere.”

 

“What have you  _ done  _ to me?” Thomas snarled. “I cannot move my lower body.”

 

“You were in an accident. It damaged your spine. You’d know this if you even thought to try and, I dunno,  _ remember _ anything from the past month,” the boy snarked. “Or, you know, let me  _ speak _ .”

 

Thomas tried to reach into his mind, he sifted through the memories he was familiar with, the ones of Paris and Monticello and the White House, back to the images of this boy and the three little girls, and a woman, and a few others. Wheelchairs, movies, long talks and even longer silences. He tried to go further, tried to remember anything that happened  _ before  _ that, but found only a gaping hole where his memories ought to have been. “What  _ happened _ ?”

 

“You lost your memories in the accident. You hit your head during the accident, and damaged you prefrontal cortex,” the boy recited, sounding as if he was quoting someone. “It erased all episodic memory. That means you have lost any memories pertaining to  _ you _ . You used to have more of them. Memories, I mean. You exist in this time, too. Or a different version of you does.”

 

“Parker,” Thomas echoed emptily.

 

“Parker,” the boy confirmed.

 

Something occurred to Thomas. “How can I remember being myself, then?” he challenged.

 

The boy sighed again. “If I have to hazard a guess, it's because you had these memories first. You were Thomas before you were Parker.”

 

“So reincarnation exists then? I have heard the claims, but I’ve always brushed them off as nonsense,” Thomas said, choosing to steer the topic away from  _ Parker _ . He didn’t want to be Parker, didn't like what Parker represented, so he simply  _ wouldn’t be _ .

 

The boy snorted. “If it doesn’t, then we have far greater problems,” he said.

 

Thomas sighed. “This is absurd,” he muttered. “My better judgement would still have me believe this is all some sort of hellish dream. There’s simply  _ no way _ this can be happening. For one, I would  _ never _ be a negro.”

 

Thomas didn’t miss the way the boy’s eye twitched. “Well,” the boy snapped, seemingly out of patience, “that is not up to you. You were born this way, now  _ deal with it _ .”

 

“And I should suppose the idea of etiquette is something you were born without,” Thomas replied hotly, “Though that is to be expected from someone--”

 

“I swear to God, Thomas Jefferson, if you make  _ one more _ off hand remark about my race, I will smack you across your pompous face,” the boy seethed.

 

Thomas felt himself sink further into his pillow. “You-you can’t be serious,” he said.

 

“Try me,” the boy growled.

 

Thomas was saved from a response by a knock at the door. For a moment, no one acknowledged it, before Thomas cleared his throat and said, “Are you going to get that? I would, but I’m currently unable.” He could not keep the bitterness from his voice.

 

The boy slowly got up and headed for the door. “Who’s there?” he asked cautiously.

 

“Just me, Jem,” a female voice said from behind the door. “Though, can I ask why my daughters are eating jelly beans in Alexander’s room rather than sitting in there with you? Aren’t you supposed to be watching them?”

 

“Oh,” the boy--and the fact that everyone seemed to be calling him ‘Jemmy’ or ‘Jem’ didn’t do anything for Thomas’ nerves--said. Though he didn't look in that direction, Thomas heard the door opening. “I’m sorry, Ms. Jones, but… well… you’ll see,” the boy said in defeat.

 

“What's-- Parker, you're awake!” a dark woman exclaimed, and Thomas sighed.

 

“I prefer Thomas, actually. Well, I would  _ much _ prefer ‘Mr. Jefferson’, but that would be a bit o much to ask, I have come to discover,” he said bitterly.

 

The woman’s eyes widened. “Oh my,” she whispered.

 

“Pretty much,” the boy replied, “I thought it best to have the girls leave. I was proven correct. Actually, you might not even want to stick around. He’s not exactly pleasant.”

 

“ _ Excuse you _ ?” Thomas asked indignantly. He was ignored.

 

“I’m not just going to  _ leave _ , Jem. He’s my  _ son _ ,” the woman argued, “I’ve dealt with worse than arrogant, racist brats, and I’m not going to be scared away from my son by an entitled, elitist asshole.”

 

“ _ I beg your pardon _ ?” Thomas demanded.

 

“You heard me,” the woman told him unrepentantly.

 

“I-I-You can’t speak to me this way!” Thomas retorted.

 

The woman simply smiled. “James?” she asked, turning towards the boy, “What was it you said in that Constitution of yours?”

 

“Freedom of speech?” the boy supplied, and Thomas balked.

 

“Freedom of speech,” the woman agreed with a nod.

 

Thomas felt his nails digging into the palm of his hand as his fists tightened. “It is not  _ his _ Constitution,” he snarled, “because  _ he _ is not James Madison! Mr. Madison is my dearest friend, and I will not stand to hear him being disrespected by the likes of  _ you _ .” Thomas took a deep breath. “And, furthermore, it does not concern people like  _ you _ , as they are not considered entirely people in the eyes of the law, as per the Three-Fifths Compromise.”

 

“Think he’s done?” the woman asked in something akin to a whisper. The boy nodded, and the woman smiled. “People like  _ me _ ?” she repeated derisively. “You mean people of colour.”

 

“Is that what they are referred to as these days?” Thomas could not suppress the snort that escaped him.

 

“You mean is that what  _ you’re _ referred to as, Thomas,” the boy replied, “You seem to keep forgetting that there’s no great ‘other’ in this conversation.”

 

Thomas bit down on his cheek to keep from screaming. “If all you’re going to do while you’re here is lie, insult, and antagonize me, then I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” he hissed.

 

The boy glared at him, and unless Thomas’ eyes were deceiving him, there was the familiar glint of tears in his eyes. “I can’t believe I ever judged you worthy of my trust,” he spat before turning on his heel and stalking out of the room.

 

Once the door slammed behind the boy, the woman sighed and sat down in the chair to the right of Thomas’ bed. “You know,” she started, “I’ve never really understood why you take your memories as hard as you do. You never talk about them. You never even mention them, as if they never existed. I didn’t bring it up, but I never really  _ got _ it,” she said. Thomas understood the meaning of the words separately, but the meaning as a whole continued to evade him. “Why you panicked, or had such terrible nightmares, or anything else, really. I think I’m starting to understand, though. To have all  _ this _ ,” she gestured at Thomas as a whole, “in your head since you were small? To know that this is what you used to be? I  _ get _ why it would hurt so much.”

 

Thomas didn’t know how to respond.

 

“That boy,” the woman continued, “is the first person I’ve ever seen who understands. The first person who’s  _ tried _ , the first person who’s  _ helped _ . I’ve never seen you latch onto someone so quickly. And now?”

 

For a long moment, the room was silent, and Thomas felt as though a million ants were crawling just under his skin.

 

“Don’t you see how much you’re hurting him, Thomas? You both try and act so grown up all the time, but really? You’re still just kids. He’s just a boy, and you just took all of his doubts and fears and threw them back in his face. He  _ loves you _ , and you just told him to leave.” The woman took a deep breath. “Now I know you don’t remember anything, but I also know that somewhere in that stubborn head of yours is my little boy, and I know you two must share  _ something _ in common. I don’t think you  _ want _ to hurt anyone, I just think you don’t know how  _ not _ to.”

 

And with that, she stood, placing what must’ve been the gentlest kiss Thomas had ever felt on his forehead, and left the room.

 

Thomas still didn’t know what to say.

OoOoO

James didn’t know where he was going as he walked out of the hospital, only that he was  _ going _ .

 

Fucking  _ Thomas _ .

 

He had almost forgotten the kind of person Jefferson could be to his enemies. He had never experienced it himself, per se, but he would have had to be blind not to see the way he treated Hamilton -- or any other opponent, for the matter.

 

He saw that, and he did _nothing_. He did nothing, he _agreed_ , and now? Now he was _in love_ with him. What kind of person did that _make_ _him_? Who in their right mind fell in love with a racist, sexist, homophobic shit like Thomas Jefferson?

 

A less angry, more rational part of James reminded him that he wasn’t in love with  _ Thomas _ , per se, and that Parker was absolutely  _ nothing _ like Jefferson. And yet…

 

James had  _ missed this _ . From the moment he’d remembered who he was to the moment Parker introduced himself in those idiotic magenta skinny jeans, he’d  _ missed Thomas _ . And fuck if that didn’t make him feel like an awful human being, because who the hell would miss someone so needlessly cruel?

 

_ Someone who hadn’t been so great themselves _ , that other part of his mind supplied helpfully.  _ Someone who had just seen their loyal friend and ally, who hadn’t cared about any of the other nasty parts _ .

 

James didn’t want to think about it anymore. He just wanted Parker back. He just wanted all of this over with.

 

He felt the chill of a breeze against his tear-streaked face as he stopped in front of a door. A moment later, it registered in his mind that it was the door to Alexander’s room. The room where everyone else was in, eagerly awaiting news from him.

 

James didn’t know what was scarier: going in and facing them, or being alone.

OoOoO

“Since nobody wants to say what we’re all thinking,” Alexander said at length,” I have to say it: what the hell do we do?”

 

They were gathered in Alexander’s dorm room, Carter having left when he saw the crowd of people arriving. James was still seated at the edge of the bed, both Lafayette’s and Peggy’s arms around his shoulders in their octopus versions of a hug.

 

“What do you mean, what the hell do we do?” Jon asked from his spot next to Alex on the bed.

 

James mindlessly picked at his cast.

 

“About Thomas. We have to do  _ something _ . If not get Parker back, then convince him that this whole mess is real and that we are who we say we are,” Alexander explained, “We can’t just let him be a raging dickhead. The people at the hospital don’t deserve that.  _ James _ doesn’t deserve that.”

 

James snorted incredulously. “How the fuck do you plan on doing that? He’s… he’s an asshole, let’s be honest, and he’s too stubborn to believe anything you tell him,” he said quietly, the last words Thomas had said still echoing in his mind.

 

In response, Peggy and Laf’s grip on him tightened.

 

“Alexander could talk to him,” John said cautiously.

 

“Are you insane?” Lafayette asked, “They-they could kill each other! Non, scratch that, they  _ would _ kill each other!”

 

“No, no, it’s actually a good plan,” Peggy said slowly. “Alex is probably the only person who can convince Thomas that this isn’t a trick. He just has to be himself. No one else can piss Jefferson off like Hamilton.”

 

“So the plan is for me to  _ annoy _ Jefferson into submission?” Alexander asked.

 

“Don’t act like you have a problem with it, Hamilton,” James quipped, “We all know you’ll do it with a smile on your face.”

 

“I never said I wouldn’t,” Alex agreed with a tight grin.

 

“Laf does have a point, though,” Jon interrupted, “We can’t leave them alone. It’ll get… ugly.”

 

The whole room seemed to cringe at the idea of Hamilton and Jefferson alone in a room.

 

“Lafayette can go with them, they’re friends with both of them,” Peggy proposed finally. “Although, I have a distinct feeling Thomas isn’t exactly going to be feeling  _ friendly _ .”

 

“Yeah,” Jon said with a roll of his eyes, “That doesn’t sound ominous at  _ all _ .”

OoOoO

Thomas was tired. He’d been interrogated by a number of physicians and nurse; he had been forced to examine his feelings and memories at great lengths; he had been coerced into using the inane monstrosity that was the plastic contraption on wheels.

 

So yes, you could say Thomas was tired. Exhausted, even. He wanted nothing but to be able to sleep without constant interruptions.

 

“Mr. Jones?” a voice said from the doorway, and Thomas sighed.

 

“I believe I’ve asked on  _ numerous _ occasions to be referred to as ‘Mr. Jefferson’,” he snapped, rubbing a hand over his face.

 

“Of course, Mr. Jefferson,” the nurse replied, and the amount of contempt and disdain in their voice made Thomas what the scream. “I just wanted to inform you that you have a couple of visitors. Sir.”

 

Thomas sighed again. “Send them in,” he muttered tiredly.

 

Immediately after strolled in a short, dark man in a sweatshirt and a… person in a purple shirt and cuffed jeans. 

 

“Thomas,” the man said, dragging a chair in front of Thomas’ bed. 

 

“I’m sorry,” Thomas said in a way that made it perfectly clear he was as far from apologetic as humanly possible, “but do I know you?”

 

The man snorted, plopping down in the chair. “I’d say so. You know, I was having fun, this time around. Enjoying equal rights and all that. And then,  _ and then _ , guess who showed up my door, looking as if someone had just ran over their new pet kitten? None other than dear old James Madison,” he said, practically draping himself over the chair. “You really did a number on him, Tom. Haven’t seen the kid so beat up in, well,  _ ever _ .  _ Congratulations _ ,” the man drawled.

 

Thomas narrowed his eyes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he hissed. “But your disrespect--your  _ insolence _ \--is remarkable, truly.”

 

“I see you still wear arrogance like one of your idiotic velvet coats.”

 

“I don’t believe I’ve caught your name,” Thomas gritted out through his teeth.

 

The man smirked. “That’s because I haven’t said it yet. But really, I shouldn’t  _ need to _ . You’ve already met me. Am I really  _ that _ forgettable? I mean, I  _ highly _ doubt it. I’ve been told I’m very memorable, and what with Mr. Miranda’s wonderful success I believe I might’ve surpassed even  _ you _ in terms of fame, Tommy Boy.”

 

“ _ Don’t _ call me that,” Thomas snarled.

 

“And, anyway,” the man continued, plowing on without any regard for Thomas at all, “I do think I should allow our mutual friend to have their chance at a tearful reunion before I continue.”

 

“No no, go on,” the other person--their mutual friend?--replied in what Thomas recognised as a rather light French accent, “I’m enjoying this, to be completely honest.”

 

“You sure?” the man asked.

 

“Of course. Go on, mon ami,” the person said with a grin. Thomas felt his head spinning.

 

Meanwhile, the man in front of him smiled, resembling a lion, all teeth and ill intent. “Well then, if I have your blessing,” he relented, “How are you liking the new packaging, Jefferson? I can’t imagine you’re incredibly comfortable in it, what with your holier-than-thou beliefs in your own supremacy and all. Although, I have heard that you were comfortable in  _ other _ people of color. Sally Hemings comes to mind.”

 

Thomas felt as if he’d been slapped.

 

“Alexander!” the other person scolded, “There are  _ lines _ .”

 

“I built my whole career on crossing lines, Laf.”

 

“Oui, but that’s  _ still Parker _ . He may very well remember this. Don’t throw that on him this soon.”

 

Thomas was at a loss for words. Alexander? Laf? It was  _ impossible _ .

 

“Fine,” the man-- _ Alexander _ \--huffed. “What about the fact that his own Secretary of the Treasury tried to find something-- _ anything _ , really--wrong with my plan and couldn’t? Is that still fair game?”

 

The evidence was mounting.

 

“Absolutely,” ‘Laf’ responded, leaning back against the wall.

 

“Fantastic, because that happened, you know. Must’ve been a  _ wonderful _ moment in your presidency. The most powerful man in the country--in the  _ world _ , one might even say--and you couldn’t even disassemble the work of your political nemesis. You kind of looked like a fool there, Tommy.”

 

“I have told you not to call me that,” Thomas hissed.

 

The man shrugged. “I’ve been reliably informed that I am a  _ terrible _ listener,” he took a breath and continued, “So, let’s recount: not only could you not overturn my debt plan, but then you made some of the  _ worst _ economic decisions in, well, the history of our nation at the time. Outlawing trade?  _ Really _ ? What went through your mind? How did you think  _ that _ was a good idea? Honestly, tell me. I want to hear, just so I can laugh at how ridiculous your explanation is. I could really go for a lau--”

 

“Hamilton, I swear, your witless, asinine,  _ senseless _ rambling has gotten even more fatuous and moronic since you  _ died _ !” Thomas finally shouted. Had he not finally been rid of Hamilton? It must be some sort of infernal punishment to be forced to endure the man’s rants yet again.

 

Hamilton grinned and clapped his hands. “There we go! That’s progress,” he exclaimed, “Now, if you understand that  _ I _ am Alexander Hamilton, can you understand that the boy you yelled at earlier--the boy you told to leave, the boy who turned up at my doorstep in  _ tears _ \--is James Madison?”

 

Thomas blinked twice.

 

“Thomas? Yoo hoo? Thomas? Tom Tom Tommy Boy? Jeff? You in there?” Hamilton asked.

 

“You’re lying,” Thomas finally declared, “I always knew you were low, Hamilton, but really? Have you really stooped to such lies? I must say, you’ve failed to meet even my lowest of expectations. James Madison is a man of virtue, not some dull, disrespectful, temperamental--”

 

“That is  _ quite  _ enough,” the person--not Lafayette,  _ certainly not _ Lafayette cut in, “Really, Thomas. I expected more. I do suppose I shouldn’t have, but I did. And now that you’ve mentioned  _ low expectations _ , I must admit that such utter discrimination, denial, and apathy towards your fellow human beings--humans who, as you claim, have the right to  _ life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness _ \--scrapes the very ground beneath a bar that was not set very high. I always assumed Alexander was exaggerating his claims of your immorality, but now I see very clearly that he was  _ not _ .”

 

Throughout their whole spiel, the person’s voice never wavered, never rose any louder than it had started, always sounding cool and collected.

 

Thomas saw the anger underneath.

 

“In case you’re so deluded to the truth in front of you, that’s the Marquis de Lafayette,” Hamilton said, the lion’s smile again appearing on his face, “And they’re right.”

 

“You mean  _ he’s _ right,” Thomas argued.

 

“Nope. I meant what I said. Now, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t have a  _ blast _ absolutely tearing you apart, but we must be going now--we’ve got to console your boyfriend after we tell him that you’re still in as much denial as you were when we arrived. Buh-bye and go fuck yourself, you self-righteous bastard,” Hamilton said, and with that he grabbed Lafayette by the arm and dragged him from the room.

 

Thomas sat in shocked silence.

 

_ Boyfriend _ ?

OoOoO

James let his head rest in Peggy’s lap as he allowed himself to cry. Nothing had changed.  _ Nothing _ , except that Thomas was more willing to accept  _ Alexander _ than himself.

 

“James,” Peggy said, carding their fingers through his hair, “It’s gonna be alright.”

 

“He hates me,” James muttered.

 

Peggy snorted. “Good riddance then. This isn’t Parker, James. This is Thomas Jefferson, grade A asshole. If he doesn’t like you, it’s a testament to his character rather than yours,” they said.

 

James sighed. “That’s the thing--it  _ is _ Parker. They-they’re still sort of the same person, even if they deny it. I’m James Madison, and I’m James Matthews. I’m one person because it’s  _ the same person _ , just… a bit different. Adapted to new surrounding, grown up a bit. But Parker… he just  _ ignores _ it, and I know why, of course I know why, but there’s no possible way that it’s healthy. But I’m not going to bring it up because it hurts him to remember and--Jesus, I’m too tired for this,” he said, “I’m tired, and I’m babbling so much I’m giving Alexander a run for his money. Basically, even if he doesn’t want to admit it, Parker  _ is _ Thomas, and all of this is just going to hurt him more, and he  _ won’t let me help _ .”

 

“He’ll come around, Jem,” Peggy said. “Just give him time.”

 

“And if he doesn’t?” James retorted, “What if this is  _ it _ ? If these are all the memories he gets back?”

 

“We’ll  _ bring _ him around,” Peggy reassured, but they didn’t sound too certain themself.

 

James nodded weakly, and kept to himself the thought that Thomas Jefferson wasn’t exactly and easy one to  _ bring around _ .

OoOoO

Thomas decided to ignore the implications of the word ‘boyfriend’ for a while as he pondered over everything else Hamilton and Lafayette had said.

 

The boy had shown up at Hamilton’s door in  _ tears _ ? Not that he didn’t deserve it--he’d been entirely insufferable--but even so, that did seem rather extreme. And, if the insane impossibility that the boy, was in fact, James Madison was true, then Thomas had said some outlandishly inappropriate things.

 

But that  _ wasn’t _ James Madison. It couldn’t be. It just  _ couldn’t _ .

 

Thomas Jefferson had always prided himself on being a kind, understanding, and forgiving man. Even if the boy had been overwhelmingly unpleasant, Thomas didn’t want him to think Thomas was one to just let children cry, even children in such a low class as the boy.

 

As Thomas mulled over all of this, the woman--she’d introduced herself as ‘Ms. Jones’ and had refused Thomas’ demands of her Christian name--sat in the chair next to his bed, skimming through a book. Or, at least, that’s what she was pretending to do. Thomas could see her glancing up at him over the pages.

 

“Just  _ call him _ , Thomas,” she sighed when she caught his eye.

 

“Call whom?” Thomas asked, crossing his arms over his chest--at least they responded to his commands, unlike his whole lower half.

 

“James,” Ms. Jones supplied, flipping the page of her book.

 

Thomas huffed. “I will  _ not _ . I-I do not send for Oriental boys--I have no need to--I am--”

 

“Oh hush. Your superiority complex takes up half the room as is, no need to inflate it farther,” Ms. Jones snapped, rolling her eyes.

 

“What is  _ that _ supposed to mean?”

 

“Thomas, your pride will be the death of you,” Ms. Jones sighed before going back to her book.

 

“Says the woman who is most likely some fashion of whore,” Thomas snarled.

 

Ms. Jones shut her book. “Excuse  _ you _ ?” she asked, her voice so low it made Thomas’ skin chill.

 

He repressed the urge to close his mouth and hide under his blankets. “Surely you didn't expect me to miss the fact that you have those three little mulatto girls with you all the time, and not a father in sight,” he said with an air of faux lightness. “It’s the simplest conclusion.”

 

“I-I don’t have to explain the situation to you. You’ll remember it soon enough,” Ms. Jones replied, her eyes narrowed. Thomas snorted.

 

“You all but confirmed my suspicions with that statement,” he scoffed.

 

“Your father died, theirs left,” Ms. Jones said finally, “Left three years ago. Wasn’t much help before that, either. Now, if that answers all your questions,  _ Mr. President _ ,” she sneered at the title, “I’d like to get back to my book.”

 

Thomas didn’t respond, and after a moment she continued with, “And my phone is on the table. Call James.”

OoOoO

James was angrily watching a David Attenborough documentary when his phone pinged.

 

_ Ms. Jones _

**I require your presence immediately. Come now.**

**~Thomas Jefferson**

 

To say James was shocked was an understatement. To say he was hesitant to comply was an even bigger one.

 

He knew that obeying what basically amounted to a  _ summons _ would result in little but frustration, agitation, and shame, but his dread was eventually conquered by the fact that  _ this was Thomas, _ his oldest and closest friend, and, to an extent, his  _ boyfriend _ whom he  _ loved _ .

 

Of course he would go and see him.

 

_ Jemmy James _

**Give me 20 min.**

**And, typically, people say please.**

**~James Matthews**

 

Just because he was going didn’t mean he had to go quietly.

OoOoO

Thomas had spent a lot of time with James Madison. They’d been friends and political allies for as long as Thomas could remember.

 

And now that he allowed himself to look for them, he could see all the similarities between that man and the boy in front of them.

 

The names, the posture, the seemingly quiet, polite facade that fell away to reveal--however loathe Thomas was to admit it,, in regards to the boy in front of Thomas--sharp and biting intellect, even the dry sense of humor reminded Thomas of his friend.

 

“What do you  _ want _ , Thomas?” James, for that was the boy’s name, even if Thomas wanted to deny it, questioned, “I’ve been here for five minutes and all you’ve done is exchange greetings and stare at me. If you wanted a picture, you could’ve simply asked for one.”

 

“I-I don’t. I simply wanted to talk. Hamilton told me about the, um,  _ condition _ in which you arrived at his house, and I wanted to make certain that you regained your composure,” Thomas explained. That  _ was _ why James was here. Thomas was not lying to him.

 

“So now you’re taking Hamilton’s word, but not mine?” James inquired evenly, crossing his arms, “You can find it within you to accept who he claims to be, but not me?”

 

“It’s entirely different. No one else could be quite as unbearable as Hamilton,” Thomas argued, “And besides, Hamilton is a man of such low character that it is not at all unbelievable that he would be brought back as--”

 

“Don’t,” James said.

 

Thomas huffed. “Anyway, I’m still not completely convinced that this whole thing isn’t some elaborate dream.”

 

“Yes, you are,” James replied, “You’re a racist, sexist, arrogant prick, but you’re not stupid. This whole thing is too vivid and too drawn out to simply be a dream.”

 

Thomas sighed. “So maybe I am convinced,” he admitted, “But that doesn’t mean that I understand any of this. I go to bed eighty-three, my only physical incapabilities due to age. I wake up sixteen and unable to move my entire lower half without experiencing excruciating pain.”

 

James was about to respond when Thomas continued.

 

“And yet, that is not wholey the truth because I also remember going to sleep as a boy named Parker Jones who knew nothing of me and watched superhero movies. It’s all happening, all at once, and it’s all me, and yet some of it noticeably  _ isn’t _ .”

 

James sighed. “And so you’ve come to the root of the issue with reincarnation. I’d say it’ll get better once you have the rest of your memories, but I somewhat doubt it will.”

 

“What if I don’t  _ want _ the rest of my memories? What if I am perfectly content being simply Thomas Jefferson?”

 

James looked torn between laughing, screaming, and cry. He instead settled on coughing, seemingly just to clear his throat, but it soon dissolved into an actual hacking cough.

 

“Are you alright?” Thomas asked carefully once James recovered. The boy nodded.

 

“Yeah, yeah. Don’t worry, I’m fine,” he assured, rubbing a hand over his collar bone.

 

“If you’re sure,” Thomas replied, looking the boy over.

 

“I’m  _ sure _ , Thomas. You don’t have to mother me,” James snapped.

 

“My deepest apologies for trying to be  _ polite _ ,” Thomas sneered.

 

“Look,” James replied, “Someday, hopefully very soon, you're going to get your memories back. You can't escape it, you can't prevent it, you can't delay it. It's going to happen. You just have to make your peace with it.”

 

“I don't  _ want _ to remember,” Thomas replied, “I'm completely happy with my current frame of mind, thank you very much.”

 

“Yes, well, you don't really get a choice. There's no deal, no quid pro quo, no under the table bargain you can make to stop it. It's your mind,” James pointed out, “There's not much that can be done to stop the mind.”

 

“Not to mention, I’m under the impression that you all are anxious to have me restored to naught but a few spare memories in the back of Parker’s mind. I can’t say I understand why,” Thomas said sullenly.

 

“Times have changed, Thomas,” James explained, “There’s no place for us as we were here anymore. It’s a new life, a new family, a new situation, and new opinions. We adapted. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

 

“I have the feeling I did not adapt so much change completely.”

 

James smiled. “You’d be surprised,” he admitted.

 

“I feel as if I’ve been in a constant state of surprise since I woke up,” Thomas muttered, and to his surprise, James laughed.

 

Thomas thoroughly ignored what the sound did to his insides.

 

“I suppose you  _ would _ be. These sorts of changes are surprising, especially of that magnitude,” James said, pushing up his glasses with the arm not wrapped in a cast.

 

“What happened? To your arm, I mean?” Thomas asked.

 

“It broke in the crash. I had it braced against the back of Alexander's seat, and when the car stopped, my arm didn't. They're going to have to set it, soon,” James explained.

 

Thomas couldn't help but stare at the cast. “Did it hurt?” he asked quietly.

 

“I… I don't know,” James admitted, “I didn't really pay it much attention. I was a bit distracted.”

 

“By what?”

 

James laughed again, but this sound wasn't amused or happy; it was dark and bitter, like old black coffee. “Mostly? You cracking your head on the dash and bleeding out in front of me,” he said dryly, but Thomas could detect the sorrow beneath the words.

 

“Oh,” Thomas muttered, bringing a hand up to the bandages wrapped around his head. “I wasn't aware.”

 

“It's fi--well, it's not fine. It's as far from fine as it can  _ get _ , really. But I'm dealing,” James said, the final words barely a whisper.

 

“I apologise,” Thomas blurted out abruptly. “For my actions towards you. They were completely childish and unnecessary.”

 

James didn't smile, not really, but he was no longer frowning or scowling. “I… thank you, Thomas. I cannot say that I forgive you, but I'm no longer angry, and I accept your apology,” he stated evenly.

 

Thomas took a minute to think before he replied. “And… having gone over the past few days, I would also like to apologise for not believing your claims of your identity, Mr. Madison,” he finally said slowly.

  
Now James  _ was _ smiling, a small, nearly hidden grin that Thomas only recognised from years of observation, and in that moment he wondered how he could've been so blind and oblivious until then.

**Author's Note:**

> I PROMISE PARKER’S PAIN WILL BE OVER SOON I'M SORRY
> 
> please tell me what you Thought!


End file.
